IPS 2519 

P22 
Copy 1 



•A I E I I ■ '"i " J % , 1 , : £\&J.l 





\tlMJ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap,. ...... Copyright No. 

ShelL_!__iL.„_. ■ t 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SELECTIONS 



FROM 



THE POEMS OF 
/ 

TIMOTHY OTIS^PAINE 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK LONDON 

27 West Twenty-third Street 24 Bedford Street, Strand 

&\t Imitfeerbocker £)»£• 

1897 



A- 



J 



\ 



y^^\ 



yn> 



Copyright, 1897 

BY 

AGNES H. PAINE 



Ube Tknicfcetbocfcer ipress, IRew JJorft 



PREFACE. 

The poems in this small posthumous volume are a 
part of those written by the author in the intervals of 
a busy student life. I say student life, yet he was as 
intrinsically a poet as a student, and, to speak most 
truly, it seems as if his life were made of three, symmet- 
rically united into one. 

In the first place he was the active pastor, loving very 
much those he served for nearly forty years, and very 
much beloved by them. 

Then he was the learned archaeologist who restored 
Solomon's Temple, using as his implements the many 
languages he learned for the purpose ; employing, also, 
an artist power of illustration, so rare, so accurate, 
so exquisite, that the plates in his folio volume, beauti- 
ful as they are, are dwarfed by the original drawings 
from which they are taken. Thus, during a large por- 
tion of his working life, his thoughts dwelt in the world 

iii 



iv PREFACE. 

of the Scriptures, the Hebrew, the Septuagint, the Copt, 
the Italic, and that of the other authorities he consulted. 

" I am all buried up in the visions of God in Ezekiel," 
he once wrote, " and in them I do know something — 
near — I know Ezekiel's heart." 

As an archaeologist he, also, followed, in the hiero- 
glyphics of the Book of the Dead, what the Egyptians 
relate of the hereafter, and portrayed on a long scroll 
the journey of the spirit as there recorded. 

His third life was that of the poet, and yet, as I have 
-said, the poet was the underlying and ever-present man. 
He seemed always conscious of nature, and little in her 
realm escaped the keenness of his observation. He 
even caught the reflection of a violet in the clear eyes of 
a grazing cow. As a boy, he could call the birds to him, 
and he held converse with the trees and the streams. 

The intense enthusiasm of his character was remark- 
able, an enthusiasm as far removed from temporary 
excitement as the steady glow of a planet is from the 
darting of a flame, and as great in his last, his seventy- 
second year, as it could have been in his youth. This 



PREFA CE. V 

seemed to preserve the unaffected heart of childhood in 
his gentle, useful age. It was, however, very individual, 
for it co-existed with calmness, and left the impression 
of knowing "the bit and the bridle." Akin to it, and 
giving it its aliment, was an equally remarkable appreci- 
ation of all greatness. A gigantic work of the human 
intellect, a new dictionary, for instance, an invention 
showing a new use of some law of nature, made him 
" catch fire at once," as he expressed it. 

He loved to pay eloquent tribute to the real greatness 
of the simple, the unnoticed, the lowly. He admired 
especially work — fine and faithful — no matter how hum- 
ble. This fine work he strove to give in all that he 
did. "Whosoever builds must do so in full faith;" 
he said, " for it seems to me not worthy of a man to 
work poorly, fearing that his work will perish. There 
is a great deal of work put into everything about us — 
even a snow-flake or the flower of a weed ; and the 
smallest object in nature is worked up as perfectly as 
the largest. It hurts the mind to work poorly ; and it 
helps the mind forever to do the least thing to the best." 



VI PREFACE. 

No word was too homely for him, if it expressed his 
thought best, or named his fact. The scores of letters 
he wrote to be sure of accuracy in every detail of his 
Woodlanders, were as eager and interested as his re- 
searches for Solomon's Temple. 

Of course, this rich, threefold life could not be at- 
tained without a withdrawal from much that occupies 
the world. In retired simplicity, with great concentra- 
tion of purpose, he kept far from the interests of the 
mart and the exchange. His thought tarried little on 
the politics of the day. 

No more could this life be attained had he not had 
a home in which he found perfect sympathy, rest, and 
renewal ; a home where he received as he gave, and 
where he still gives from beyond. 

Thus he was enabled to sow by many waters. We 
know that a blessing has come from some of these 
poems ; may more blessings still spring from this seed 
that he has sown ! 

S. W. P. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

A Dew-Drop 62 

Ah Me, the Step, how Short a One 15 

A Long, Low Line of Brick and Granite Stores 82 

Another Present from Heaven 2 

A Sigh 24 

A Tree, Delighted with the Earth, Grew Sad 65 

Autumn Trees , 8 

A Worm 18 

Be Careful 25 

Breaking up of Winter 37 

Children of Heaven 13 

Chimney Swallow 42 

End of December 35 

Far up in the Depths of the Sky 7 

Flowers that Be so very Small n 

FORGETFULNESS 67 

Free and Loose < . . . . i 

vii 



viii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Good Work 23 

Great Gable-Tipping Sun 22 

Hail to Thee, Terror 52 

Hear, Good Shepherd, Hear My Cry 80 

Hither Comes the Swallow Back 42 

Ho, Come, Stand with Heads Uncovered 73 

Home Lake 68 

How the Eagle Does 47 

I Am a Violin 4 

I Am Glad that His House Hath Mansions. 19 

I Came not down from Heaven 18 

I Feel a Song 3 

I Grew Old 27 

I Grew Old the Other Day 27 

I Hear the Songs of the Insects 6 

I Know the Hills about Old Home 28 

I 'm like a Fish of the Ocean 68 

In Heaven We shall Be Children again 13 

I often Think in the Evening 14 

I once, O Segur, Hoped to Sing 60 

I See how Long They will Miss Her 17 

I See not now why e'en Forgetfulness 67 

I Think Sweet Memories will not Die 16 

I will Sing where I Light 1 

Little Blue Butterfly 5 



CONTENTS. IX 

PAGE 

Little Chubby, Twittering Wren 49 

Little Squirrel, Spring is Hatching 37 

Mansions 19 

Measure 82 

Mile-Stones 66 

Mosses 12 

My Wounded Heart Is Sore 24 

Nature alway Is in Tune 34 

Nature Dresses Her Children Best 8 

Now the Winter Chickadee 36 

Ode and Song to the English Sparrow 52 

Ode to the Sun 22 

Ode to the Wind 29 

Oh Dearest Birds That ever Sang 38 

Oh Wind of Mighty Will 29 

One Sun-Lit Dew-Drop in the Grass 62 

Princess Massasoit 69 

Robin-Song 40 

Round about upon the Weeds 10 

Seeds 10 

Shaws of the Segur 58 

Shy Thrush, Again Thy Voice is Heard 44 

Song of My Loving 14 



X CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Song of the Snow 7 

Songs of the Insects 6 

so round about our hedges flit 52 

Soul-Song 3 

Spring is a Lisper 35 

Stonytop 28 

Sweet Memories 16 

Tewelema 69 

The Bat 54 

The Boat 26 

The Builder 15 

The Eagle 47 

The Evening Primrose 63 

The Foot-Track 21 

The Immortal Tree 65 

The Little Mosses Trusting Cling 12 

The Lost Flower 11 

The Lost Sheep 80 

The Mystic 56 

The Old Bridge 17 

The Poor Weed 33 

The Primrose Blooms at Eventide 63 

The Rainbow in the Spray 2 

There Are That Fulfil not Their Promises 33 

The Robin Sings at Dimmy Dawn 40 

The Segur Shaws are Beckoning Me 58 

The Violet Blows by Mystic Side 56 



CONTENTS. XI 

\ 

PAGE 

The Water on the Meadow's Breast 20 

The Wheat of Amenti 31 

The Woodlanders 73 

Thou easily mayst Crush the Flower 25 

Though It with Toil Be Rife 21 

Thou, Little Even Bird 54 

To-Morrow We will Sail again 26 

To the Bluebird 38 

To the Butterflies g 

To the Wood-Thrush of Segagus 44 

True Fame is Worthy of a Good Man's Zeal 66 

Violet Butterfly 5 

Violin 4 

Visit to Segur's Brook 60 

Wait 34 

Waters of the Meadow 20 

Who Praised when Sun, Moon, Star 23 

Will Men Forget that My Wheat-Field 31 

Winter Chickadees 36 

Wren 49 

Ye are Blessed, Butterflies 9 



FREE AND LOOSE. 

I will sing where I light 
And alight where I may, 

As the birds in their flight 
That go singing away. 

Not a foot of the ground 
Do I own, not a hand ; 

I go trespassing round 

For the flowers of the land ; 

Not to pick anything, 
But to see them in bloom 

And to hear the birds sing 
Where there 's plenty of room. 



THE RAINBOW IN THE SPRAY. 

Another present from Heaven, 

Another peaceful day ; 
Like a dew that covers the dryness, 

Like a rainbow in a spray. 
And this is all of my lifetime, 

And this my only day 
That I need to think of or care for, 

With its rainbow in the spray. 



SOUL-SONG. 

I feel a song 
Going by on the wind 
Of the air that is breathed 
By the mind, 

But hear no word 
Of the lay as it flows 
In a silvery stream 
To the close. 



VIOLIN. 

I am a violin 

Missing the fingers slender 
That whilom took me in 

To bosom tender ; 

Longing again to hear 
All of the dear caressings 

And feel the gentle ear, 
The warm heart blessings. 

Oh for the touch again 
Vibrating all the stringing 

That silent must remain — 
To one hand ringing ! 



VIOLET BUTTERFLY. 

Little blue butterfly 
Like a blue violet, 

Up from the meadow fly 
Like a blue violet. 

What is it floateth thee, 

Lavender violet ? 
Where is it bearing thee, 

Soul of a violet ? 



SONGS OF THE INSECTS. 

I hear the songs of the insects 

Out in the dark to-night 

Enter the open window 

Of the chamber void of light ; 

And they come like words of comfort 

Spoke to the darkened mind, — 

Like the words so tenderly uttered 

That opened the eyes of the blind : 

And I feel me falling to slumber 

In wondering over the way 

The continuous tridulous singing 

Is tingeing the dark with day. 



SONG OF THE SNOW. 

Far up in the depths of the sky, 
In the loft of the zenith on high, 
Under the top of the dome 
Is the feathery snow's high home. 

It is there that garments of white 
Are suddenly made in the height 
And dropped on the sorrowing throng 
Who cry to the Lord, " How long ? " 

And heads that are bowed and old 
Grow white as the sheep of the fold — 
As the crowns of the purified throng 
Who reign with the Lord — how long ! 



AUTUMN TREES. 

Nature dresses her children best 

Just before they fall to their rest ; 

Puts on every beautiful vest 

Ere they pass to the fields of the blest ; 

Every fruit is fairest drest, 

Every leaf is beautifulest. 



TO THE BUTTERFLIES. 

Ye are blessed, butterflies ; 

Ye are of the early wise. 

Now ye feed on tender leaf, 

Now ye bide in durance brief, 

And not over-long delay 

To put forms meant for earth away. 



SEEDS. 

Round about upon the weeds 
There are many little seeds 
Held in many a tiny cup 
Only waiting to come up : 
Only waiting for the sun ; 
For the winter to be done ; 
For a bosom in the earth 
Warm enough to give them birth. 
And I feel like any weed 
With a ripe or dropping seed ; 
Waiting for another sun 
When my little day is done. 



10 



THE LOST FLOWER. 

Flowers that be so very small, 
Flowers that be no flowers at all — 
Not the size and not perfume 
But the hand that held the bloom. 

Fingers of the hand so small, 
Fingers that are spirit all — 
Not the hand, but 't is the thought 
Moves the fingers unto aught. 

Thought alone I value not 
But the soul within the thought. — 
Oh ye flowers out o'er the land, 
How I miss the vanished hand ! 



ii 



MOSSES. 

The little mosses trusting cling 

To all the ledges where they spring : 

Content to live in lowly bed 

Or honeysuckle rock o'erhead ; 

Or in the vases of the ice, 

Or where the trout brook taketh rise ; 

Upon the wall, or on the tree, — 

Where'er their happy home may be. 



12 



CHILDREN OF HEAVEN. 

In Heaven we shall be children again ; 
Children of One from children of twain. 

None but children shall come into Heaven ; 
Children of seventy, children of seven. 

So it is said, and so it is sung : 

As we grow older we shall grow young. 



13 



SONG OF MY LOVING. 

I often think in the evening 

Or when the morning is near 
Or in the twilight of sadness 

Why is it I am here ? 
And why do I stay so long 

And steadily away ? 
Why alway going to see them 

But never setting the day ? 
My bosom is heaving and aching 

For the few that yet remain, 
And I am longing and planning 

To see them once again. — 
And also the day am I setting ? 

I have but few to set, 
But send this song of my loving 

To those who have them yet. 



14 



THE BUILDER. 

Ah me, the step, how short a one, 
Between the doing and the done ! 
How near the barque may come to land 
Yet cast her cargo on the sand ! 

Oh give me strength, and give me mind 
To finish what my hands may find ! 
That none may say, in future days, 
This man could hew, but could not raise. 



15 



SWEET MEMORIES. 

I think sweet memories will not die, 

But live, and die not ever. 

I think the hearts sweet memories tie 

Will bounden be forever. 

I think sweet memories will awake 

That long have slept and slumbered. 

I think the longest night will break 

In dawn, and joys unnumbered. 



16 



THE OLD BRIDGE. 

I see how long they will miss her : 

We are alway building new bridges ; 
We raise up the old-time valley 

And level off the ridges. 
The overarching elm trees 

Are killed by our new rilling ; 
But still we build new bridges 

And little heed the killing. 
But do not believe, my darling, 

That so it will be with you : 
My spirit goes over the old bridge 

And only my feet the new. 



17 



A WORM. 

I came not down from Heaven 
Nor came I to my own ; 

But I am born of earth 

To none in Heaven known. 

Oh Who will give me might 
To break away and fly 

That I be not a worm 
The day I die ! 



18 



MANSIONS. 

I am glad that His house hath mansions, 

For I shall be tired at first ; 
And I 'm glad He hath bread and water of life, 

For I shall be hungry and thirst. 
I am glad that the house is His, not mine, 

For He will be in it, and near ; 
To take from me the grief I have brought 

And to wipe away every tear. 



19 



WATERS OF THE MEADOW. 

The water on the meadow's breast 
Is moving slowly, as I look : 
She cannot yet be called a brook 
♦ But water seeking rest — 
Her level and her rest. 

She is not seeking greater height, 
But willingly is moving slow 
And going where the ground is low 
And yet her face is bright — 
Her face is calm and bright. 



20 



THE FOOT-TRACK. 

Though it with toil be rife 
This is my way of life. 

Though other roads are fair 
They lead to otherwhere. 

Though rugged be the path 
It many restings hath. 

When slacks the driver's rein 
Then ends the old home lane. 



21 



ODE TO THE SUN. 

Great gable-tipping sun, 

Just bursting from the east 
Thy day is now begun. 

But thou art not alone 

The builder of a day : 
Each man shall make his own. 

Oh, mightiest of the great, 

Alone in majesty, 
Thou movest on in state ! 

But over thee and me 

There is a Mightier One 
Who guideth me and thee. 

The great alike and small, 

Attended or in wait, 
Shall hearken to His call. 



22 



GOOD WORK. 

Who praised when sun, moon, star, 
Great earth, and sea spread far 
Were made ? But yet what worth 
From laboring sun, sea, earth ! 

Put work enough in all 
Thou doest, great or small, 
And let the ages tell 
How much thou didst, and well. 



A SIGH. 

My wounded heart is sore 
And needs a gentle touch 
I do not ask for much 

And cannot ask for more — 
A gentle touch. 



24 



BE CAREFUL. 

Thou easily mayst crush the flower ; 
The delicate thing is in thy power, 
A ready victim of its doom : 
But thou canst not restore its bloom. 



25 



THE BOAT. 

To-morrow we will sail again * 

In our little boat. 
'T will take but one to man the bark 

'T is but a feeble float. 
We shall row in waters then 
Never seen afore ; 
And we '11 drive our shallow skiff 
To another shore. 

* Cras ingens iterabimus oequor, — Horace. 



26 



I GREW OLD. 

I grew old, the other day, 
And I worked uneasily. 
Then I thought it need not be 
By and by we shall not say 
" I grew old, the other day." 



27 



STONYTOP. 

I know the hills about old home 

But little higher are than these ; 
And yet I cannot make it seem 

That this is so — with ease. 

The scene from Stonytop is fair 
As that my childhood gazed upon ; 

But youth comes falsifying things 
And this is all outshone. 

These robins and the sparrows stir 

My heart as in the olden days ; 
But much of glory in their songs 

Is from the early lays. 

Deep in the oldest tree are veins 

That formed there when the trunk was young ; 
But life comes gushing up through them 

The latest growths among. 



28 



ODE TO THE WIND. 

Oh Wind of mighty will, 
Remember Him who spake 
To thee upon the lake 

And once again be still ! 

Lift not the awful deep, 
Nor tumble it ashore, 
Nor scream above the roar, 

Nor pile it heap on heap. 

Without thy wilful rage 
The ocean were a glass : 
The birch canoe might pass 

On it an endless age. 

Oh had I not been cast 
Upon a wind-torn sea 
29 



30 ODE TO THE WIND. 

How quiet might I be 
And safe on land at last ! 

But so the Spirit goes 

As blows the viewless wind, 
Upheaving all the mind 

And searching all her woes'; 

Uptearing from its bed 
And dashing on the beach 
Along the sandy reach 

The weedy crop and dead. 

With mighty hand and high 
And voice that terrifies 
The obedient waves that rise 

Confounded with the sky, 

The Spirit in the breast 

Sweeps on its rugged course, 
An ocean-moving force, 

And brings the bark to rest. 



THE WHEAT OF AMENTI. 

Will men forget that my wheat-field 
Was once full fresh and fair ? 
Will they say that naught but stubble 
And yellow straw are there ? 
Will they forget the wheat-field 
Was once full green and fair ? 

I Ve seen full many an image, 
Carved on the Nile of old, 
Of the travelling souls of Amenti 
In their journeys manifold 
Carrying wheat for which they had labored 
While their life was yet on earth, 
With the hoe of field and garden 
And their name and symbol of worth : 
And I 've wondered if Someone had told them 
There is life in the earthly grain 

31 



32 THE WHEA T OE AMENTI. 

That will make the meadows of Heaven 
Look fresh and green again. 

And I 've seen these souls of Amenti 
With their hoe of garden and field 
At work on the heavenly tillage ; 
And I 've seen the heavenly yield 
High rising above the reapers 
Like reeds by the water side ; 
And I 've seen their cattle threshing 
In the Anro Meadow wide ; 
And I 've seen their wheat unwinnowed 
And their winnowed wheat, and bread, 
With a spirit kneeling before One 
Who hath a crown on His head ! 

And then I have thought of^the question, 
If the living point in the grain 
Will put forth shoots in Amenti 
Turning green my field again. 



THE POOR WEED. 

There are that fulfil not their promises. 

The leaves are often fairer than the fruit ; 

The tender infant fairer than the man. 

But shall the infant lie within the man 

As in a tomb of everlasting death ? 

Or shall an Angel come and loose the door 

And sit upon the stone ? Oh child in me, 

Cease not thine efforts once again to live 

A second child, or child a second time : 

Once child of earth, now child of heavenly clime. 



33 



WAIT. 

Nature alway is in tune : 
Nature alway hath a rune. 
Let it be an autumn day ; 
Let it be a day in May : 
Nature alway hath a rune ; 
Nature alway is in tune. 
Let it be in autumn late : 
There is music when we wait. 
Once I waited very long ; 
But my life became a song. 



34 



END OF DECEMBER. 

Spring is a lisper ; 
Comes in a whisper. 
Spring is a tumming, 
Tapping and thrumming. 
Coming a little, 
Moiety, a tittle ; 
For the December 
Is but an ember. 



35 



WINTER CHICKADEES. 

Now the winter chickadee 
Flutters in the appletree, 
On the bole and on the bough, 
On the frosty foggage now, 
While the sun is held with ease 
Right between two sinewy trees. 

Now he singeth " chickadee ; " 
" Phebe," now, and plaintively ; 
Now another sweeter lay 
Few would think his song or say : 
Song or say of nesting time 
When sweet love is in her prime. 



36 



BREAKING UP OF WINTER. 

Little squirrel, spring is hatching ; 
Love and happiness are catching. 
Now the river-ice is broken ; 
The Ticonic Falls have spoken ; 
Segur and the Clover woken. 
Fort Hill now is showing patches 
Large enough for partridge scratches. 
Ducks are in the breathing places 
Where the fishes sun their faces. 
Peetweets soon will be repeating 
All their rapid, high peetweeting ; 
River-bank to bank o'erflitting, 
On the river-boulders sitting, 
Teetering up and down and quitting. 
Many things will soon be coming ; 
Bees and bumblebees a-humming. 
There 's enough to keep us happy 
In our burrows warm and nappy. 



37 



TO THE BLUEBIRD. 

Oh dearest birds that ever sang, 
That ever sang and made a nest, 

Ye bluebirds, flying round in pairs, 
I love you, faithful bluebirds, best. 



From early spring to autumn snow 
In hollow post or rail ye build ; 

Or, on the corner of the barn 

Your little box with straw is filled. 



Oft, going for the pastured cow, 

I 've turned me to the old stump fence 

To see your blue eggs in a root 

Or if the young had fluttered thence. 

38 



TO THE BLUEBIRD. 39 

Ye turtle doves of northern homes, 
Of northern homes on either hand, 

Your simple note, so soft and deep, 
Will soon be heard out o'er the land. 



ROBIN-SONG. 

The robin sings at dimmy dawn, 
At any time all day, 
And when the twilight cometh on 
You hear the robin-lay. 
All while the robin is awake, 
With time for leisure wing, 
He '11 sit and sing for singing's sake, 
Nor sigh if he can sing. 
And when a grief is overpast 
He '11 seek the topmost bough 
And sing as he would sing his last, 
As he is singing now. 
To-day he loves the sunny sun, 
To-morrow loves the rain, 
In autumn loves the winter run, 
And loves the spring again. 
40 



ROBIN-SONG. 41 

He thinketh not if he may die, 
Or mourneth the unknown, 
But feels the moment going by 
And maketh it his own. 



CHIMNEY SWALLOW. 

Hither comes the swallow back, 

Doing as I knew he would : 
Wing and body picked, black, 

Chitting round in cheery mood ; 
Lighting ne'er on roof or tree, 

Twittering ever on the wing : 
Note, but ne'er a song hath he ; 

Chats, like me, but cannot sing. 
And he knoweth naught of earth, 

Feeding in the wingy air ; 
Lighting just above the hearth, 

For his little home is there : 
Skimming in a morn of May 

In a mellow, mackerel sky ; 
Up, and off, and high away, 

Disappearing to the eye : 
42 



CHIMNEY SWALLOW. 43 

Then our little bird will come — 

Robin never lived so near — 
Down into the heart of home, 

Filling it with quiet cheer. 



TO THE WOOD-THRUSH OF SEGAGUS. 

Shy thrush, again thy voice is heard, 
Thou sweetest, lonest, native bird, 
Emperched out of reach of gun, 
But plainer seen, marked by the sun, 
The setting sun, here out of sight, 
But not to thee in that far height, 
As still thou singest, singest long, 
Upon thy crimson mount of song, 
A little island high away 
Retaining all there is of day, 
And all the choicest thing on earth, 
A wood-thrush, heir of song by birth. 

Where didst thou pass thine infancy ? 
What food ambrosial nourished thee ? 
Wert cradled in the purple clouds, 
Or in the wreath of mist thee shrouds, 
44 



TO THE WOOD-THRUSH OF SEGA G US. 45 

Or housened on the braken sward, 
Thou spirit, looking heavenward ? 

Thou 'mindst me of my mate, my bird, 
Whose richest tones at eve are heard ; 
As once, adown this woodland green, 
Thine own self, vying, well hast seen. 
Thou markedst how she moved along 
In the full current of thy song, 
As thou wert watching, overhead, 
Thine each note pulsing in her tread, 
Alternate listening to her tone, 
And, next time, deepening thine own. 

And now the eve is coming on 
And thy last sunbeams almost gone 
Upon the dark top of the pine, 
Thy little form alone in shine ; 
A little crescent, setting moon, 
A while in sight, but lost too soon ; 
A wood-thrush warbling deeper still 
As evening shades Segagus' rill 
And one sense less distracts the mind 



46 TO THE WOOD-THRUSH OF SEGAGUS. 

From sweet sounds floating on the wind : 
A meteor starting into sight 
And gliding down into the night 
Thou comest, darling, from the tree 
To sit and carol nearer me. 



THE EAGLE. 

How the eagle does : — 

Gathering up his might, 
Quitting where he was, 

Soars he in the height. 
But his aerie home 

Is not alway grand : 
Now on mountain dome, 

Now in lowly land. 
In a rugged wold, 

Be it but apart, 
He shall build his hold, 

Take his mighty start. 
Where he makes his bed, 

Where he piles his lair, 
Turns his noble head, 

'T is the king that 's there. 
47 



48 THE EAGLE. 

Where he heaps his nest, 

Where he lies in state, 
Where he takes his rest, 

There the place is great. 
When he looketh far 

Through the forest dim 
From a naked spar, 

Then look up at him. 
Feel him seize thine eye ; 

See him once for aye ; 
Watch him towering high 

On his spiral way, 
Till, a little mote, 

Black upon the blue, 
He is like a boat 

Sailing out of view. 



WREN. 

Little chubby, twittering wren, 
In the eastern home again 
Soon wilt build the hasty bed 
Round the gray old barn or shed, — 
In a mortise of a brace, 
Bluebird box, or other place 
Large enough for bumblebee, 
Or, my feather-ball, for thee. 

Wonder if you, little pest, 
Still fill up the bluebird's nest 
Now with straw, and now with twig, 
Till the hole is not so big 
As the bluebird's darling head ; 
Stealing from her her sweet bed, 
49 



5<D WREN. 



Forcing her to work for you 
A whole precious day or two ? — 
So insultingly a chip 
On the gable's very tip 
While the bluebird is gone in ; 
Stopping quick your ceaseless din 
When the bluebird flies away, 
Hurrying in whate'er you may. 
Are there, darling as thou art, 
Some to take the bluebird's part, 
Pulling out your barnyard stuff 
Till the hole is large enough 
For the bluebird, rightful host, 
On the barn's high corner-post ? 
Oh how often I 've regretted 
That thy ways me ever fretted ! 
We have been so rudely parted 
Oh how oft I grow sad-hearted ! 
Could we meet and never part 
I would love thee as thou art, — 
Filling every nook with crannies, 



WREN. 5 1 



Helping you, whate'er your plan is, 
Favoring all your fancies pretty 
Never wearying of your ditty ; 
Making boxes without number 
Out of gray old fencing lumber, 
Nailing them where'er their tint 
Gives the seeker little hint : 
Or upon the oilnut gray, 
Cool, and from the cat away, 
Or about the eaves and gable 
Of the house or shed or stable. 

Oh could we live o'er again 
All our childhoods, little wren, 
There 'd be room enough for more 
Than there was in days of yore ! 



ODE AND SONG TO THE ENGLISH SPARROW. 

Hail to thee, Terror, 
Brought by an error, 
Fancy, or notion, 
Over the ocean, 

Sparrow of England ! 

How is it Ayrshire, 
Dumfries, and Her'shire 
Have yet a wood-bird, 
Bad bird or good bird 
If the whole country is 
Full of thy effronteries, 

Pet pest of England ? 



So round about our hedges flit ; 
Deep in the cedars crowd and chit. 

52 



TO THE ENGLISH SPARROW. 53 

When Winter frays each other wing, 
Here do thy very best to sing : 
Make happy noise in merry time, 
A flood of noise instead of rhyme, 
And break the Winter all to bits, 
Ye little busy foreign chits. 



THE BAT. 

Thou, little even bird, 
Seen dimly and unheard ; 
Too poor to fire at, 
Thou nothing but a bat ! 
I get a mighty word : — 
Be little seen and heard. 

Oft as at eventide 
I walk the riverside 
I view thee catching flies 
All round about the skies : 
All using up the day 
And not in any's way. 

When sparrows under hill 
Are chippered out and still 
And Silence, like a mist, 
Signs to the meadow " Hist ! 
54 



THE BAT. 55 

'T is perfectness in thee 
To move so silently. 

And when the sky is red 
And thou art overhead, 
And when it 's toning down 
And shading into brown, 
'T is well thou autumn bit 
Art blended into it. 



THE MYSTIC. 

The violet blows by Mystic side 
When all the leaves are tender, 

And on her fells, a day in June, 
The honeysuckle slender. 

The violet blooms in Segur Dell, 
And there I wander early 

To guess if honeysuckles blow 
By one I love so dearly. 

The common ocean gathers in 
The Mystic and the Segur, 

And where the stormy petrel flits 
Unites their waters eager. 

They rise in mist, they fall in rain, 
In dew, and sunny showers, 
56 



THE MYSTIC. 57 

And glide as one in Segur Dell 
Beneath the spreading bowers. 

But little hope is there for me 

That I may meet the maiden 
Who looked at me and spoke to me 

Then left me lone and laden. 



SHAWS OF THE SEGUR. 

The Segur Shaws are beckoning me ; 
Their sacred walks are o'er the lea ; 
And Sabbath hangs her holy veil 
Around the shaws for me : 

For love of one hath holy feet 
And love of her to-day is meet : 
Two silent souls in quietude, 
O grant communion sweet ! 

Let love and joy the far-off maid, 
In secret chamber closed, invade, 
And move her thought in wondering way 
To Segur's slaty glade. 

The peace of all this fragrant dell 
Enfold her spirit in a spell, 

58 



SHAWS OF THE SEGUR. 59 

Albeit the place unknown, undear 
As he who loveth well. 

But once we met, and parted then — 
So long ago I know not when : 
We parted then and met no more 
And little heard again. 

Yet still I come to Segur braes 
With oaken shaws and braken sprays, 
To still brood o'er one memory 
So sacred all the days. 



VISIT TO SEGUR'S BROOK. 

I once, O Segur, hoped to sing 
A song for all the ages ; 
But now I cannot, e'en in prose, 
Tell what my heart encages. 
The trees grow nobler all along 
Thy crooked, winding valley, 
And June is sweeter than a song 
As breezes die and rally. 
There 's listening on every hand 
For something to be uttered : — 

" O Segur, speak the lover's love 
So often to thee muttered : 
The love of one as far away 
As in his early childhood 
Still filling all his heart with love 
60 



VISIT TO SEGUR'S BROOK. 6l 

And all this listening wildwood. 

Oh cease thy carol, sacred thrush, 

Thou bird of all the ages ! 

I cannot bear the mighty strain 

That now my heart engages. 

Oh speak aloud ye human trees 
A hundred feet above me ; 
Your dewy eyes and trembling lips 
Reveal how well ye loved me ! 
Ye Seba Heights and Segur Hills, 
Three Heights and Hills scarce parted, 
Low in the centre at your feet 
Bear witness ' One true hearted.' " 



A DEW-DROP. 

One sun-lit dew-drop in the grass ; 
No other anywhere in sight : 
Some gentle fairy, in her pass, 
Out of her necklace dropped it last night. 

And now it is a sapphire blue ; 
And now a yellow topaz fair ; 
And now a ruby drop of dew : 
What kind of jewel doth a fairy wear? 



62 



THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 

The primrose blooms at eventide, 
And, where I go, the highway side 
It lights up with its yellow blow : 
What else it does I do not know, — 
Except, all day, with dust of road 
The leaves are gray, and, until blowed, 
The bud is gray, with slight perfume, 
Till eve unfolds a clean sweet bloom. 

It grows there in the short green grass 
Between where foot and carriage pass : 
Where wheels might crush it, should one ride, 
And the horse startled sheer aside. 
It sprang up there, and there hath grown 
And made the narrow green its own : 
Chose not a place by nature fair, 
63 



64 THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 

But made one so by growing there. 
And when the August days are hot 
It quitteth not the chosen spot, 
But there at evening may be found 
Because the root is deep in ground. 

I often pick one for my wife ; 
' T is so much like her own dear life 
To stay right here where she but must 
And be a flower though there be dust. 



THE IMMORTAL TREE. 

A tree, delighted with the earth, grew sad 
Because she must quite perish at the last. 
Just then her seeds like myriad windows oped 
Therewith, her eyes, and through them looked she 
And saw herself an endless forest stand. 
Then were content, but that another glance 
Showed all her kind no longer on the earth, 
Save deep in mines. Her second sight was oped, 
And she in her own proper person stood 
A spirit tree within a spirit wood. 
Then gladder grew her life ; and lop of bough, 
Or loss of leaf or fruit she little marked ; 
For that she felt herself all whole within, 
However worn or spoiled she had been. 



65 



MILE-STONES. 

True fame is worthy of a good man's zeal : 
Confess it, ye who quicken at the names 
Whose deeds or writ divide the distant past 
Like mile-stones scattered on the closing way ; 
Admonitory that the onward road 
Will claim like bounds for yet back-looking man. 
How much we owe unto the garnered past ! 
Our lips to-day are not more surely fed 
With last year grain than are our thinking souls 
By old experience : by deeds and words 
That were so done and writ, their echoes roll 
Back from the luminous sky of olden days 
With inward power to move us on our ways. 



66 



FORGETFULNESS. 

I see not now why e'en forgetfulness 

Should 'minish aught the joy the blessed feel, 

Rich in the present filled to perfectness. 

How few the memories we would bear to Heaven ! 

It being so, how much would we recall ? 

How much regret spend over memories closed ? 

These summer leaves may rattle to the earth, 

But fruits matured are gathered to the barn. 

And fruits have in them seeds to germinate 

In other ground and yield like fruits again. 

Nor shall aught die. The book of life here writ 

Upon our inner selves stands legible 

From age to age, a record foul or fair ; 

And he that writeth needs but look in there. 



67 



HOME LAKE. 

I 'm like a fish of the ocean, 

This rustling autumn day, 
Remembering with emotion 

The lake of infancy, 
Where now the painter, October, 

Oft looks and turns to me, 
With face upraised and sober 

From her palate in the tree ; 
And up the river of childhood 

My thoughtful way I take, 
And up the streams of the wildwood 

And back into the lake. 



68 



TEWELEMA. 

Princess Massasoit, 



Daughter of the chieftain, 
Long descended, hail I 
Thee the lineal ruler 
Of these natal wildwoods. 

The Satucket River 
And her bordering valleys 
And the hills above them 
Crowned by Wonnocooto 
Claim their pristine monarch. 

Spindles of the cornfield 
Fingers multitudinous 
To the Indian heavens, 
69 



70 TEWELEMA. 

Silent and unanimous, 
Raise in attestation. 

Every year the flowers, 
With traditional memory 
Of thy great grandsire 
And new childlike wonder, 
Open to behold thee. 

And the great-eyed squirrel 
In the sinewy oak top, 
Mindful of thy fathers, 
Holds the acorn breathless 
Watchful of thy fingers. 

I, too, lore instructed, 
See the awful moccason 
On thy foot imperial, 
And dread Metacomet 
Rises up in vengeance. 

In the flying car train, 
Sitting at a window 



TEWELEMA. J I 

Looking on the woodland, 
Thoughts of Ousamequin 
Smooth thy troubled forehead. 

Merciful and pitying 
Was the mighty peace king 
Sent to make it easy 
For the band of pilgrims 
Driven to thy forests. 

In thy crown of feathers, 
Lonely Tewelema, 
Thou art going silent 
To the Nahteawamett 
On the Assowamsett ; 

To the Reservation 
Held by old tradition ; 
Wootonekanuske 
And thy aged mother 
Looking from the cabin. 



72 TEWELEMA. 

Gone to the Ponemah 
We shall miss you absent. 
When the sparrow twitters 
Then will we remember 
Thee, O Chic-chic-chewee. 

And when fairs are crowded 
On the Nunckatesett, 
Then thou, Indian maiden, 
Shalt appear in vision 
From the isles of chieftains. 



THE WOODLANDERS. 

A LAMENT OVER THEM. 

Ho, come, stand with heads uncovered 
And hear the story told growing old ! 
How men went to war as to pleasure 
As they go to seaside and mountain ! 
How died they like flowers of the summer 
That appear for a day and are gone ! 

I saw, out of Maine's pine forest, 
The wood-camp crew on dead heavy tread : 
Not marching from schoolhouse to common, 
From common to schoolhouse returning, 
But forward and onward and southward 
To the banks of Potomac away. 

73 



74 THE WOODLANDERS. 

Old mates, crossing o'er at Fairfield 
The Kennebec's proud wave, to the grave 
High travelling, musket to shoulder ; 
I saw them in columns unsorted, 
In ranks like the tips of the pine tops, 
Short and tall, arm to arm, friend to friend. 



Oh men, share my aching sorrow. 

Bow down with grief profound to the ground. 

They never marched back again homeward ; 

They died on Virginia's borders ; 

The boughs of their bunks from the hemlock 
Shed their leaves and dried up and decayed. 

Ho, hear : 't is a piteous story : — 
The forestmen are dead, they are sped. 
Their cabin of logs in the woodland 
Was glad with their yarns and their laughter ; 
They all slept together like children 
With their feet to the open wood fire. 



THE WOODLANDERS. J$ 

But now, rattling at his stanchion, 

The ox looks round to hark in the dark : 

He hears not a sound that 's familiar ; 

He knows not the man in the hay-house ; 

Turns backward and forward his ears 
And his eyes meet the eyes of his mate. 



There 's grief when the cattle wonder 
And moo and look about in a doubt : 

They die without reading their riddle ; 

They miss the old teamsters in exile ; 

See not the old cook with the lanterns 
But the new one bring lights for the teams. 

Ah say, Where is now the story 

That whiled the evening long like a song ? 
The teller was off for the war-camp ; 
The hearer sprang up from the telling 
At once with the shriek of Fort Sumter 

When the cannon was fired at her flag. 



j6 THE WOODLANDERS. 

Oh woe when the story 's broken 
Beside the burning heap ere men sleep : 
For who could go on with the wonder 
When seats by the fireside are vacant 
And hearers would only be thinking 
Of the voice of the mate who began ? 

And weep o'er the single hearted 
Who alway live at home, summer home, 
And sleep in the woods in the winter, 
And then from the quiet of nature 
Are marched through bewildering cities 
To the lonely wild waste of the war. 



Gone, gone, and a border soldier. 

How far away from home thou dost roam. 
How cruel the soul to the body 
To bear it a captive so hopeless. 
Dost never thou feel for a moment 

Any sickness for home in the woods ? 



THE WOODLANDERS. J J 

Come back. Now the snow is fallen ; 
'T is eighty feet on high in the sky ; 

The pine tops are loaded down heavy ; 

'T is level arm deep on the leaf bed ; 

The cook has piled high the tea fire 
And is waiting and watching for you. 

The meal soon will be all ready ; 
In half a minute more or before : 

Rake open the fire and the ashes ; 

Dig down for the beans in the embers ; 

The biscuit are brown in the bakers 
And the dippers are brought for the tea. 

Oh say, Will ye come to supper ? 

Does home look good afar where ye are ? 
Come ! Axes are swinging and ringing 
And echoing clear to the table, 
'Mid calls of the men and the crashings 

And the singing of saws and the chains. 



78 THE WOODLANDERS. 

I see, in among the pine trees, 

The flannel sleeves and red, hear the tread 
Of men with their axes to shoulder, 
Each man with an axe on his shoulder, 
At will bearing arms of the log-land 

To the peaceful and quiet home hut. — 



Alas, they be ghosts and phantoms, 
The shadows of the great in a strait 

That vanished one day from the forest. 

I saw, in the long heavy car- train, 

Their regiment stop for a little, 
And I asked who they were and where bound 

" O guard, let me look a moment." 
I saw the men in blue two and two ; 
In every car-seat twin messmates, 
And never a car-seat was empty, 
Bent forward and resting their foreheads ; 
And they looked like a thousand of lions. 



THE WOODLANDERS. Jg 

No more. Went they on and onward. 

I heard the cannon sound ; and the ground 
Was alway in opening her bosom 
And folding them mustered from battle. 
But off were their wraiths to the wildwood, 

Their freed manes were back in old home. 



Even now, when the snow is going, 

And logs are hauled no more to the shore, 

And axes no longer all talking, 

Their shades wander down over State Street 

And into the city of Bangor 
With the sturdy old stepping of yore. 

Like beeves, free of yoke and loosened, 
Together keep they still down the hill, 
Along by the Bridge of Kenduskeag, 
To Elder's, the Alleyway Cellar, 
And eat of the meal they had promised 
Far away in the fields of the South. 



THE LOST SHEEP. 

Hear, Good Shepherd, hear my cry ; 
Lost among the hills am I. 
Leave, for me, the ninety-nine ; 
Find me, find, and make me thine. 
In the mountains, strayed from thee, 
Come, O come, and seek for me. 

Where the wilderness is dry 
Seek for me before I die. 
Where the mountain-side is steep 
And ravines are dark and deep, 
Where thou hearest one low moan 
Seek me starving, lost, and lone. 

Lay me on thy shoulders, lay, 
Weak and weary of my way. 

80 



THE LOST SHEEP, 8 1 

All my strength in wandering spent, 
Take, and bear me to thy tent. 
Let me hear thine own dear voice, 
And thy friends, with thee, rejoice. 



MEASURE. 

A long, low line of brick and granite stores 
Extended down a river's narrow vale. 
These blocks were built full fifty years ago ; 
But failure following swiftly on their rise 
They died in youth, a row of skeletons 
Wherein the ghosts of disappointed men 
Held nightly haunt among decaying stairs 
And looked out through empty window holes. 
The region was a place one went to see 
And then to think of in the dead of night. 
It was a weird retreat that wound away 
As wound the stream which dully rippled by. 
So little trodden was it that the weeds 
Came up among decaying lumber-piles. 
The dandelion blossomed here in May 

82 



MEASURE. 83 

In crevices of long neglected walks. 

The street was like a discontinued road 

Where daisies, buttercups, and grasses grow. 

Boats paddled by, and all was still again. 

The meditative boy who came to fish 

Forgot to bait his hook and went to sleep 

Among the flowers with gentle Solitude. 

The city noises, busy in their place, 

Ne'er thought to turn aside and come in here, 

But here it was a workman wandered in, 

Like some lone bird, and built his hidden nest. 

Old Time alone took rent in every room ; 

Thought quartered here ; Invention here abode ; 

Patience had chambers ; Trying stayed here long ; 

Measure, the snow-white queen of perfect work, 

Her golden reed borne in her lily hand, 

Here sought her child, and said, " Take this, my son, 

And fix its perfect marks the first since time. 

Guide every hand henceforth through ways untried 

And haste the coming of the coming age." 

She reached to him her reed and disappeared, 



84 MEASURE. 

But did not leave his side until Success, 

With clean and radiant robes, stripped off the clothes 

Work-worn and mean, but beautiful to those 

Who knew the workman and the work he wrought. 

*T is measure leads straight on to perfect fit ; 

And perfect fit is perfect perfectness. 

Who marks the perfect rule helps read the stars. 

The slightest fault on earth is great in heaven : 

The line that deviates will never reach 

The targe where Truth, the Revelator, stands. 

The perfect Rule is Empress of the hand : 

" Work thus," she saith, " from needle-point to 

point ; " 
And men of master mind obey her word. 
Mechanic and astronomer are one ; 
Astronomer and captain of the ship ; 
Captain and mate ; the mate and pilot, one ; 
Pilot and sailor ; men, and instruments 
That look up to the skies, or tell the time, 
Or feel the cold and heat and weigh the air 
That lie between the sundered continents. 



MEASURE. 85 

'T is accuracy of guidance and of aim 

That swings the planets of the universe 

In wavy lines without one accident. 

'T is guidance through a point that hath no length 

Which microscope can see, and then the point 

That lieth next thereto, and then the next, 

That bears a hundred million suns upon 

Their unknown course with rifle-bullet speed 

Attended by their planetary earths 

Like flocks of birds that cross the summer sky, 

Without one wrecking crash, or hit, or jar : 

Without one sound so loud as of a bee 

That shoots herself away unto the hive. 

'T is perfectness of work makes silence reign 

Among the myriad stars. 'T is perfect work 

To turn a shaft on nothing ; to revolve 

Each glittering globe of fire with solid core 

Around a line more slight than spider-web ; 

On pivots smaller than the sting of bee ; 

On axle-bearings that no bearings are — 

Mere points of turning that shall know no wear 

As untold ages wend through endless time. 



86 MEASURE. 

The Builder of the boundless universe 
Creates in man an image of Himself ; 
And keeps created there and keeps alive 
The power to build the countless miniatures 
Of perfect work ; until a thousand wheels 
Grow silent, or, grow still, and stiller grow, 
In imitation of the moving worlds. 

'T is perfect measure forms the telescope 
That finds the angle for a new result ; 
And this result guides every struggling ship 
To port and home : the sailor's life is hung 
On accurate measurement. 'T is point by point 
Our lives are measured off. The ticking watch 
Proclaims our passing days : each tick, a day. 
The escapement of a clock goes meting out 
Our time. With fingers on our wrist we feel 
Escapement-work and know it is our own : 
But joyful know the measuring is divine 
And will not cease, but still go beating on, 
Moved by His heart who moveth all that moves. 



MEASURE. 87 

Our souls, like planets, know not where to go, 

But follow on in floating, curving lines, 

Now up, now down, to left, to right, but on ; 

Our safety certain only as we yield. 

But as we yield, the Great Astronomer 

Of souls, with joyous calculation, sees 

The peaceful path through which he can us lead. 

Our path is holy ground. By step and step 

Is meted all our way. Our road is by 

A slowly winding stream ; and at our side 

A man with flaxen line and measuring reed 

Goes forth to measure down the narrow vale 

And show the depth our life thus far hath gained : 

Pauses at times and onward metes again 

Until the stream becomes a river, and 

A flood that none can cross. So let it be : 

The depth is alway equal to our day. 

It hath been ever. We are told not all : 

A little now revealed ; and now a mite, 

A morsel, hath been given unto us ; 

A cup of water, then a crossless stream ; 



88 MEASURE. 

And fruits are on the banks for every month. 

But if so be the builders me reject 

As stone unfitted, though bewrought with toil, 

Are pillars only needed ? Are not stones 

For base and cornice, frieze and architrave, 

For pavement, gates, and walls about the courts 

And deep foundations needed each in place ? 

May we nor seek the highest nor the low, 

Nor seek at all save only to go in ? 

For e'en the sparrow and the swallow find 

Where they may nest and watch the worshippers. 

The fane is measured, and the worshippers ; 

The court, left out, unmeasured, given up 

Unto the nations — all must fit the fane. 

All forms are measurable ; and the lost 

Are known, revealed, and fixed again to sight 

By lines exact, exactly in their place. 

But who shall find the measures I have lost — 

The measures of a man ? The length and breadth 

And height must equal be. Length is a line, 



MEASURE. 89 

A hair, a viewless thread. The largest plane 
Is but a surface that no thickness hath : 
The length and breadth and height alone, a cube. 
We must all measures have, and equal ones. 
The sculptor measures in the marble block 
And finds a man. The architect will seek, 
With rule exact, and find a living shaft. 
But oh what sculptor, architect, shall search 
With line and reed, and beat away the chips, 
And find a worshipper, or living stone, 
To fit in somewhere in the holy fane ! 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 

lir,A\ -7-7Q.0111 



